Tincture of Opium
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: In a deserted house, there is an easy intimacy between cousins. Inspired by the relationship between Isabel Archer and her consumptive cousin Ralph in Henry James's The Portrait of a Lady. I've paraphrased a favorite line from the film adaptation by Jane Campion: "I call a person rich when he can meet the requirements of his imagination." (Macelle)


Her cousin's residence in London—one of six grand family estates scattered across Europe—is silent and shuttered for the season. There are no servants to receive them, and their footfalls echo throughout the vast, empty foyer. Marble busts, decorative chairs, elegant settees—all are covered by snowy-white drop cloths, giving the opulent, high-ceilinged rooms a spectral quality.

"Are you entirely certain you wouldn't prefer Pratt's Hotel?" Joseph asks, his hands shoved deep within his trouser pockets. "At least there we could have our meals brought to us."

"I'd much rather walk out for our meals," his cousin blithely replies, "I've never had a mint jelly so fine as the one at Simpson's tonight." Smiling, she brushes past him to examine a large portrait done in oils, hanging on the far wall.

"Why, it's you, Joseph!"

Isabelle clasps her hands together and mimics the dour expression of the toddler with the starched lace collar and the soulful, brown eyes. "You looked so glum, even then."

"Have you ever sat for a portrait, Belle?" he asks, flushing and staring at her with mock-reproach from beneath his lank, mussed hair. "It's quite tedious."

"Oh, you find _life_ tedious," she replies lightly, "Come, let's take off our shoes and walk upon this magnificent rug."

Isabelle perches atop a covered sofa, her silk dress rustling and her brown curls escaping from beneath her bonnet. She proceeds to tug off one dainty, high-heeled boot, then the other.

"I don't find _you_ tedious," Joseph murmurs, and he is rewarded with another bright, distracted smile. Electing not to remove his shoes, he trails close behind her into the sitting room with the 'magnificent' rug.

"A proper chaperone would make a fire, I think," Isabelle observes, but reaches for the matches and fire starter herself. "Do you know what Auntie said, while she was helping me pack for this trip? She said, 'With your cousin, you may go anywhere.' It's amusing because, in America, the very idea of a girl left alone with a man in a hotel, or a carriage, let alone an empty house…"

"In your American backwaters, cousins still marry cousins," Joseph replies with careful equanimity, watching her blow life into the fire with little puffs of air. "Besides, I'm a special case."

"Because you're practically a priest?"

"Because I'm dying—but it's much the same thing," he shrugs, "It elevates me to a different plane, permits me to live by a different set of rules. And since it allows me to escort my peculiar cousin across Europe, well, perhaps I'm even a little glad of it." Joseph collapses into a covered, high-backed chair and props his skinny legs upon an upholstered stool. His hands are still hidden deep within his pockets.

"Well, I do hope you won't die _tonight,"_ Isabelle muses, raising her eyebrows and holding out her hands to the modest fire. "It would be a great inconvenience, finding someone else I like so well to travel with. I would be quite put out with you."

Because she has busied herself with lighting the tapers on the mantelpiece, Isabelle misses his changing expression, the way her sly, teasing compliment banishes the look of careful detachment he wears like a domino at a fancy dress ball. While his cousin's back is turned, Joesph's eyes are wide and fond and yearning.

"I suppose I shall go on living a few years yet," he says at last, "if only to please you."

"Please do," she nods, satisfied that she has lifted his mood, and the charming dimple upon her right cheek makes an appearance.

Content with the warmth from the fire and the low candlelight, Isabelle lifts and carries a second tufted stool and places it very near Joseph's armchair.

"Where can I find a blanket for you?" she inquires, stooping and resting her hand lightly upon his shin. She studies the purple shadows beneath his eyes and the sharp planes of his sallow face. Consumption has left her cousin hollowed out, frail, and almost astonishingly ugly.

Never before has a face been more dear to her.

He shifts his legs uneasily beneath her warm hand, and softly protests, "I don't intend to turn you into my nursemaid, Belle. What sort of adventure would this trip be if your escort became your patient?"

"So I'll find it myself, then?" she chides affectionately, and swiftly crosses the room to investigate a cedar chest placed beside the largest settee. Within, Isabelle finds a collection of soft, woolen lap blankets. One substantial, gray wrapper even has his initials stitched upon the corner: _"J.R.M."_

"We shouldn't stay in London much longer, Joseph. The weather might turn cool. Better to tire ourselves on the road and head for Rome than to tax your lungs unnecessarily."

She arranges the gray, woolen wrapper snugly over his legs and around his slender waist, fussing and tucking. Joseph savors the feel of his cousin's fingertips moving beneath his thighs and then smoothing over his stomach and kneecaps. He makes no rejoinder, knowing that she is entirely in the right, and not wanting to distract her from these delightful little caresses.

"I wanted you all to myself," she says quietly, subsiding and resting a hand on his thigh. "I wanted it more than I wanted this adventure, even. Auntie's home was so full of visitors, everyone paying their respects after your father passed away. It seemed I never saw you anymore." She slides her fingers beneath his hand, where it now rests upon his lap, and absently strokes the soft blanket.

"You had only to ask for me, Belle," Joseph replies faintly, his pulse quickening and his cheeks burning, "I was with Papa's solicitor for days on end, attending to all the final arrangements. I wasn't slighting your company! You don't know how much I wanted you, when the doctor came to tell me—" He stares at their pale hands, twined together on top of the blanket, and swallows.

"There's something we haven't spoken of yet, Joseph—your father's will. Did you know beforehand that Uncle intended to divide his fortune between us? Does it trouble you?" Isabelle tilts her head, trying to meet his downcast eyes.

"Why should it trouble me?" he replies with quiet ferocity. Joseph still won't look at her. "What do_ I_ need with an inheritance? Even without this—_wasting disease,"_ he gestures with disgust to the wool blanket and his rangy legs propped up upon the stool, "…well, after all, I was nearly ordained. Even if it had been a long life, it would never have been a life of worldly pleasures."

This little speech has brought some pink to his pale cheeks, and he hunches forward, beginning to cough.

Rubbing his bony back, Isabelle regards him thoughtfully.

"I'll tell you what I suspect," she says when the coughing fit has passed, and he has collapsed back into his chair. "I suspect that _you_ asked your father to divide his fortune." When her cousin says nothing, only stares fixedly at the fire, she continues, "I also suspect you never took orders because your father didn't wish it. He wanted very much for you to have a family. He told me so privately, in his study, less than a month ago. Did he tell you the same?"

Joseph laughs at the idea of a family, and it is a hollow, dismal sound. "Take a wife in order to—what? To make her a widow? Bring children into this world only to leave them fatherless? I gave Papa more credit than that."

A coughing fit seizes him once more, but this time Joseph waves away Isabelle's hand and reaches into the inner pocket of his vest. He extracts a small, blue bottle with a label that reads: _Sydenham's Laudanum ~ tincture of opium. _With shaking hands, he unscrews the cap and dribbles a small amount directly onto his tongue. Almost immediately, his dark eyes dilate and the convulsive fit passes. He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes, and reaches blindly for Isabelle's hand, sighing.

"I also suspect this…this _poison_ is more apt to kill you than consumption," she says unhappily, but closes the distance between their fingers and allows Joseph to stroke his thumb over her palm and then to lift her hand to his rapidly beating heart. She smiles, fond and wistful, and presses her palm securely to his sunken chest.

He's always more apt to reach for her after a quaff of Sydenham's.

"I'm _glad_ you'll be getting half the estate, Belle. Alright, _yes,_ I told Papa that I wanted you in his will, and that I wanted you to have enough money to meet the requirements of your imagination. You'll be able to make much better use of it than I ever would…"

"Joseph—" Isabelle murmurs.

"But you're mistaken about the priesthood. I didn't give it up to please Papa. I gave it up because—once the doctors managed to convince me of how dire my situation actually is—I looked to my faith for peace, and I found nothing. A blank, a cipher. I looked for _God,_ and I saw ahead of me only a vast unknown. How could I minister to other poor wretches, when I couldn't so much as comfort myself? And so…I withdrew—in all ways, until you came across the ocean and found me."

They smile at one another then, and it is an aching, melancholy affection that passes between them—warm and bittersweet and pleasantly mystifying.

"Help me with this awful hat?" Isabelle requests, and he is sorry to lose the warm press of her hand against his heart.

"My fingers are hopelessly clumsy…" Joseph apologizes, but when his cousin leans closer, dipping her lovely head of curls, he is very careful and precise when extracting the hatpins from beneath the brim of her small bonnet.

She sighs happily when at last he places the pretty hat in her lap, then reaches upwards to search for the hairpins that hold her brown curls in an elaborate bundle at the base of her neck.

"May I?" Joseph asks reverently, his deep-set eyes still wide and dilated, and she nods, rising and settling beside him on the chair.

"Of course."

Isabelle holds perfectly still while his fingers creep into her ornate knots and twists, locating and gently extracting the small metal pins. He sighs, touching her hair, and she reflects—not for the first time—what an unlikely priest he would have made. Her cousin does so love to touch and to be touched, at least while the laudanum loosens his limbs and lowers his inhibitions, and while she is within easy reach.

He was never made for a life of renunciation.

Joseph lovingly smooths each tress he works loose, laying them gently and solemnly upon her silk-clad shoulders. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his movements slow and his eyes hazy, "Beautiful."

When at last Isabelle's brown curls are loose, and he is staring drunkenly at his handful of hairpins, she reaches out and brushes his own hair down over his bleary eyes, laughing. "You're fond of my hair," she informs him and then leans close and whispers conspiratorially, "It's alright. I'm fond of yours."

He grins sheepishly, groggily, and leans forward a bit more, resting his damp forehead against hers. "I'm fond of your hair," he admits.

"Joseph…" Isabelle begins thoughtfully, reaching upwards to slowly stroke his messy cowlicks, "exactly how long do you think it will it take you to propose to me?"

Startled, he jerks back in his chair, his eyes darting furtively from her loose, gleaming hair to her dancing eyes to her full, smiling lips.

"I was thinking Rome might be the place for it. Perhaps while we're visiting the catacombs? That would be atmospheric. Or we could wait until Naples, if you'd prefer…" Isabelle reaches for his trembling hands, which are now gripping the chair's armrests, and Joseph makes a valiant attempt to struggle to his feet—but his beautiful cousin is blocking his way.

"Why would you joke about it, Belle?" he groans, leaning away from her, breathing hard, unable to meet her eyes, "Why would you say it…?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks tenderly, "It _ought_ to be. I adore you, and I'm nearly certain you feel the same way, only—"

He's struggling with the heavy lap blanket, trying to kick it off, and when at last Joseph succeeds, he makes another attempt to rise from the armchair, gasping for air and stumbling. He manages to rise to his feet and shrinks away when Isabelle reaches for his hunched shoulders.

_"You know I cannot…you know I cannot…"_ he pleads, and staggers several paces off, coughing horribly. The small, blue bottle of Sydenham's is resting near the leg of the chair, and he reaches out his arm for it, imploring. Isabelle snatches it up and hurries to his side.

"Not too much, Joseph, please be careful…" she cautions, but he presses the mouth of the bottle to his dry lips and tilts his head back sharply, not heeding her. After replacing the bottle's small cap with great effort and much concentration, he gingerly sets it upon the mantelpiece, staring at it hard, as if it is apt to disappear.

_"You know I cannot…"_ he repeats, slurring his words now, and when he tries to move away from the warm hearth, he lurches forward and Isabelle catches him, holding him tight around his narrow waist.

"Then I suppose I'll have to keep proposing until you decide you _can," _she answers lightly._ S_lipping beneath his arm, she gently coaxes, "Bedtime now, Joseph…show me where your room is…that's it, we'll take things slowly, one foot after the other…" He dips his nose downwards to smell the crown of her head while they walk, stumbling and muttering.

Joseph directs her to a suite of rooms on the second floor, and they make halting progress up the grand staircase, stopping every few steps so that he might explain to her why it's best that cousins not marry and also so that he might bury his nose in her soft curls and nuzzle drowsily against her neck.

Entering his bedchamber, Isabelle makes note of the oil lamp on the bureau and deposits him carefully on the large—thankfully already made-up—bed. Tonight is a full moon, and the curtains are open, so she is able to unlace his shoes with only the aid of the faint, blue light spilling in through the windows.

_"I'm going to die,"_ he tells her urgently, when Isabelle bends over him with a quilted blanket from the foot of the bed.

"So am I—so are we all, but we musn't let it stop us from _living,_ Joseph," she replies softly, sweeping his tangled hair back from his eyes and perching next to him on the bed. "Life could be so sweet, if only you would let it…"

She bends down and kisses his clammy forehead, intending to bid him goodnight, but his shaking hands reach up to hold her there, her face hovering above his, and Joseph stares at her intently, his eyes wide and wet.

_"You love me?"_ he asks, and she smiles and nods and promises: "With all my heart."

He moans, looking absolutely wretched.

"I'm _sick,_ Belle," he pleads.

"I know it," she tells him gently.

"I'll die before you," he protests.

"It's quite possible," she says, "but I'm not as afraid of being alone _then_ as I'm afraid of being alone _now, _while you're still living. You have my_ heart, _Joseph. Do I have yours?"

"You have it," he whispers hoarsely, and it's a secret torn from his chest that costs him dearly. He's begun to weep silently, and Isabelle lifts him to her shoulder and cradles him close, murmuring nonsense and stroking his hair. He clutches at her silk-clad back as though she might be snatched away at any moment.

Joseph groans when her hands slip from his hair, caressing his wet cheeks and smoothing over his quaking back. "Close your eyes," Isabelle whispers, easing him back onto his pillow and kissing his delicate, quivering eyelids when he obeys. He makes a small, choking sound, and his lips part, his breath coming in short, quick little gasps until she dips her head lower and captures his mouth for a sweetly lingering kiss.

Joseph tastes of the saffron and cloves that flavor the bitter laudanum, and his mouth is hot, left open for her explorations. He makes soft, straining noises while she brushes her lips over his, and he _moans_ when her tongue bravely breaches the entrance of his mouth.

Isabelle strokes his smooth teeth and the slippery caverns of his mouth, savoring each involuntary intake of breath she draws from him.

_"I adore you,"_ she whispers, drawing back, and Joseph groans at the loss of her lips and these tender words, grasping at her arms and her back, dragging her close once more. His eager tongue plunges into her own open mouth, greedy and inexpert, and his legs move restlessly upon the bedclothes, bending and struggling for purchase.

"Oh love," Isabelle whispers, and when he pants out a frantic, inarticulate plea, she offers, _"show me what you need."_ With that tender invitation, Joseph takes a sobbing little breath and arches his neck, tugging at her shoulders, drawing her down to kiss his pulse points and his angular jaw and the achingly sensitive hollow beneath his prominent Adam's apple.

Isabelle presses hot little kisses behind his ear, down his throat, along his collarbone—everywhere he twists and lifts towards her lips, panting and pleading.

Beneath her, his shaking hips writhe and arch, so Isabelle strokes him there, as well, tracing his sharp hipbones with her fingertips and hearing him whimper when she caresses his taut, trembling abdomen.

"Just show me," she encourages, rubbing slow circles over his heaving belly, _"show me,"_ and Joseph moans as though she is killing him and hides his wet face against her shoulder, gasping _"Belle,"_ gasping apologies, and then dragging her hand lower, lower, pressing it between his legs. She's cupping a hot, hard bundle through his trousers, and Joseph is hissing like a hot iron has been pressed to his side, rocking up frantically against her hand, still weeping.

_"Belle…Belle…Belle…"_ he pleads through grit teeth, and she kisses him deeply, burying those achingly sweet pleas within her own mouth. He's so beautiful, struggling for his pleasure, that she wants to both cradle him close and to swallow him whole.

"Like this, love?" she asks, gently rubbing, and he scrambles at the bedclothes, arching and gasping, _"Please…oh please…oh please…"_ He cannot catch his breath, so she eases her mouth off of his and draws him back up to her shoulder while he rocks upwards, frantic and jerky, begging her for something she dimly understands.

_"I've done this, too—something like it, thinking of you…"_ she whispers, cradling him close and rubbing him with her hand. Hearing this, Joseph goes rigid within her arms. His eyes roll back, and his brow knots, contorted by the blessed agony of his release.

Joseph writhes beneath her, calling out for her, and Isabelle feels wet warmth beneath her palm, through the crumpled fabric of his pants.

He falls back against his pillow, gasping for breath, and she gently strokes his dear, ugly face. He's trembling as though he's caught an awful chill, and it takes him a long while to regain a little of his composure and to focus his brown eyes upon hers. Isabelle is staring down at him, smiling fondly.

"You'd truly want to marry me, Belle?" he breathes, dazed and astounded.

She presses a chaste kiss to his brow. _"Yes._ And I've been hoping you would ask."


End file.
